Metal Storm
by JJ Rust
Summary: AU 1986. War looms between the USA and Libya. But a mysterious man has given the Libyans an ultimate weapon. Can Godzilla, Maverick and other 80s military movie heroes save the world? Chapter 1 Up.


_LOCATION: Gulf of Sidra, Mediterranean Sea_

_DATE: May 2__nd__, 1986_

"Bandits inbound from the south, bearing one-nine-zero."

Lieutenant Commander Pete "Maverick" Mitchell groaned behind his oxygen mask. _Are these assholes ever gonna learn?_

"Merlin?" He called to his Radar Intercept Officer. "You got 'em?"

"That's affirmative, Mav," Lieutenant Sam "Merlin" Wells replied from the backseat of the F-14 Tomcat. "Four contacts. Just went feet wet and coming right at us."

"Roger that." Maverick flicked on his radio. "Rodeo Six One to all Rodeo elements. Go weapons hot. Prepare to intercept bandits."

A chorus of "Rogers" came from the pilots of the three other Tomcats in Maverick's flight.

"Rodeo Flight, Bronco Two Two," came the voice of the air control officer of the E-2 AWACS plane orbiting a hundred miles away. "Inbound bandits identified as Libyan MiG Two-Five Foxbats. You are cleared to engage."

"Roger, Bronco. All right, Rodeo Flight. Go with Sparrows. Let's knock 'em down before they can get an eyeball on us."

Within seconds, the F-14's powerful AN/AWG-9 radar locked on the approaching Libyan planes sixty miles out.

A rapid-fire beeping burst through Maverick's headphones.

"Merlin?"

"We're being lit up. Fox Fire fire control radar, coming from the MiGs."

His heart sped up, just like it did over a month ago off the Korean coast when he went up against another squadron of MiGs. Fear crept through his body. Training and experience pushed it aside.

A steady buzz filled his ears. He had target lock.

The Libyans didn't.

"Fire!" Maverick hollered.

Within moments the three other F-14 pilots reported positive lock and fired.

He looked out the jet's bubble canopy. Four white contrails streaked away from the swing-wing, twin-tailed fighters.

"Crap!" A voice burst over the radio. It sounded like Whizzer in Rodeo Six Three. "Malfunction! I got a malfunction in my Sparrow."

"Lock 'im up with another one," Maverick ordered.

Another buzz went up in the cockpit, one that made him tense.

"MiGs got a lock on us. They're firing! They're firing!"

"Evasive maneuvers! Deploy counter-measures!"

Maverick slammed the stick left. He grunted and tightened his stomach as a heavy, invisible hand pushed against him.

"Hold on to your lunch, Merlin," he groaned and swung the F-14 right, then left again. All around him bright orange flares and silvery clouds of aluminum chaff pumped out by the Navy fighters fluttered through the sky. A missile flew far above his head, followed by another.

"Rodeo Six One. Everyone check in."

"Rodeo Six Two here."

"Rodeo Six Three. Still alive."

"Rodeo Six Four. We're good."

Maverick let out a sigh of relief. All his men were still with him.

"What's the status of the MiGs?"

A couple seconds of silence passed before Merlin reported, "I got one . . . two . . . three bandits down. Repeat. Three bandits down."

"Oh yeah!" blurted one of the other F-14 pilots.

"Missile inbound!" Merlin cried out. "No lock. Repeat, no lock. It's gonna miss us by a mile. Remaining MiG's turning tail. Heading back to Libya."

"Guess he doesn't wanna play any more. Wussy." Maverick grinned.

"Rodeo Flight, this is Blue Banner." A new voice came over the radio. He recognized it immediately. Captain Frank McCutchen, skipper of the carrier _USS America._ "Link up with the Texaco and proceed to Sector Eight. We're getting reports of more MiG activity there."

"Roger, Double-B. Proceeding to Sector Eight."

Maverick swung the F-14 around and checked that the other three jets were following him. He then contacted the AWACS for the location of the Texaco, the nickname for the KA-6D refueling aircraft.

"Looks like we'll have a few more green flags slapped on our bird before the day's over."

"Gotta take 'em while we can get 'em, Mav," Merlin replied. "The way things are going, pretty soon the Libs won't have an air force for us to shoot down."

Maverick chuckled softly. But his backseater wasn't too far off the mark. How many Libyan aircraft had the _America's_ fighters splashed since he came on board? A dozen? And the only aircraft his side had lost was an A-7 Corsair that splattered across the carrier's deck during a botched night landing.

He shook his head. He should already back be at Top Gun, this time as an instructor. He should be back with Charlie Blackwood, the gorgeous Defense Department analyst he'd fallen for.

But oh no. God forbid any of that should happen. Thank you, Colonel Gaddafi – _you shithead. _You'd think all those bombs falling on Tripoli and Benghazi in retaliation for several Libyan-backed terrorist attacks would have sent a clear message to the nutcase. Don't mess with the U.S.

Unfortunately, he was too damn stupid to get it. Instead of skulking back into his sewer like a good little dictator, Gaddafi became more aggressive. Every other day the U.S Navy tangled with Libyan planes and warships. He also sent ground forces to the border with Egypt.

North Africa had become a big, freakin' powder keg, one with a damn short fuse.

As much as he wanted to get back to Miramar, part of him was glad to be out here. Any fighter pilot worth his salt wanted to be where the action was. And here in the Gulf of Sidra, he had all the action he could want.

The bulbous KA-6D tanker appeared in the distance. He had each plane report their fuel status, then lined them up from least amount of fuel to the most. Maverick wound up third in line.

He sat back in his seat, moving his head from side-to-side, working out the kinks in his neck. Maybe the politicians would be able to avert a big war. If not, well, the world would be a better place without the mad colonel and his followers.

The U.S. Navy would make sure of that.

**XXXXX**

_LOCATION: 50 miles west of Buseima, Libya_

_DATE: May 2__nd__, 1986_

Kaltar sat at his horseshoe-shaped desk, hand resting against his bearded face. He didn't bother feigning interest or concern as the short, mustached Major Fazil Fiaz ranted about more planes being shot down by the Americans. He hated dealing with the man. Hated dealing with _all _humans, period. But right now, their assistance was a necessary evil.

"They are whittling away our air force and navy," Fiaz whined, pacing the well-lit, high-ceiling office. "If this continues, the American navy will be able to land marines unimpeded. And what chance will our ground forces have against the Americans and the Egyptians without air support? How long before your weapon is ready!?"

"I told you, _five times today. _The weapon will be fully operational tomorrow."

"Then you will use it to destroy the infidels that defile our territorial waters!"

Kaltar groaned, unfazed by the major's child-like outburst. "I will use it, Fiaz. But not right away."

The major's eyes widened. "You desire to see more of our Muslim brothers die? You wish to let the Americans kill us with impunity?"

Kaltar leaned his slender, firm body back in his chair. "You are not looking at the larger picture, Fiaz. These skirmishes, though unfortunately one-sided in the enemy's favor, have served to escalate tensions between your country and the Americans. Right now you have three U.S. carrier battle groups sailing off your coast. But within the next two weeks, the size of the American forces in the region will grow significantly. Two more carrier battle groups are scheduled to take up position in the Gulf of Sidra, along with two amphibious squadrons carrying thousands of marines. The U.S. is also deploying most of the Eighty-Second Airborne Division and One Hundred-First Air Assault Division to Egypt, along with elements of the First Infantry Division and First Armored Division from Europe."

Fiaz cranked an eyebrow. "Intelligence did not inform me of these deployments."

"Then your intelligence people should watch CNN. That's where I heard about it."

Fiaz scrunched his face. His head trembled in anger.

Kaltar ignored it and continued. "Those divisions are among the best in the U.S. Army. And there is no more visible symbol of U.S. military might than an aircraft carrier. Imagine the shock the Americans, the entire world, for that matter, will experience when we destroy _five_ American carriers and their best army divisions in one massive strike. Their will to fight will crumble, and our global supremacy will be assured."

Fiaz's scowl intensified. "I pray that is true. Because we cannot sustain these loses indefinitely."

"It will be worth it in the end. The sacrifices of your countrymen will not be in vain. Trust me on this. Your Colonel does."

Invoking the supreme leader's name seemed to mollify Fiaz. He groaned for a few seconds before speaking. "I hope you are right."

Kaltar nodded. Fiaz nodded back, turned on his heel and stomped through the sliding door and into the half-oval, brightly light corridor.

"Idiot." Kaltar grumbled. He thought about asking Gaddafi for a new military liaison, but figured any new one would be just as whiny and annoying and incompetent as Fiaz.

_Like it matters_. He only needed the Libyans to provide him with a base of operations. Soon, he wouldn't need them at all.

He tapped a button on his desk. One of the wall monitors flickered to life. Kaltar leaned forward, tingles racing through his body as he gazed at the image on the screen. He took in the huge robotic dinosaur-like frame with its silver metallic skin. With another tap of the desk's control panel he zoomed in on the robot's neck. A section near the jaw line flickered and undulated, the nanobots putting the finishing touches on his version of Mecha-Godzilla.

A smile grew across his face. This time, he would succeed in conquering the Earth.

_**TO BE CONTINUED**_


End file.
